Fletch and the Man Who by Gregory McDonald

exclusive interview with the candidate?” Fletch asked.
    “Yes. There are one or two things of this nature I’d like to ask him about.”
    “Me too,” chirped Filby. “I want to ask him if he’ll permit Shubert’s ‘Ave Maria’ to be sung at the White House!”
    “I’ll see what I can do,” Fletch said to Esty.
    Down a few seats, seated at a window, Solov stared bug-eyed, blankly. Behind him, Fenella Baker was beckoning at Fletch.
    To Betsy, Fletch said, “I have a question for you, okay?”
    “The answer is yes,” she said. “Anytime. You don’t even have to bring a bottle of wine.”
    Andrew Esty, fingering his
Daily Gospel
button, was glaring at Betsy Ginsberg. He had given up glaring at Roy Filby.
    “Later,” Fletch said to Betsy.
    Roy Filby said to Fletch, “Marvelous, the issues the press dreams up for itself, isn’t it?”
    Fletch stepped around Esty and went down the aisle to Fenella Baker.
    “Two or three questions,” she said busily. “First is, did you save the life of Walsh Wheeler while you were in the service together?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “What is your relationship with Walsh Wheeler?”
    “We were in the service together. He was my lieutenant.”
    “People do make up stories,” she said.
    “Don’t they just?”
    “Have you been close friends ever since?”
    “No, ma’am. Last time I saw Walsh was at a football game more than a year ago.”
    “Were you surprised when you were asked to take on the job of press rep. on this campaign?”
    “It’s only temporary,” Fletch decided. “Until they can find someone with more experience. I’m not worth writing about.”
    “I agree,” she said. “I do hope they find someone who can spell.”
    Fletch too wondered why Fenella Baker’s face didn’t itch. Surely some of that powder had been on it since the days of Jimmy Carter.
    “Now about this Shields woman—”
    “Who?”
    “The girl who was murdered last night.”
    “Was her name Shields?”
    “You know perfectly well what I mean.”
    “I saw your report on it in the newspaper this morning. Great piece.”
    “I didn’t write on it this morning, mister.”
    “Oh yeah. You did a think-piece on the hockey riot.”
    “Are you crazy?”
    “I must be. I’m here.”
    “I wouldn’t have written on the Shields murder this morning. It isn’t a story yet.”
    “It isn’t?”
    “It’s not a national story until some connection is made between the girl and the campaign.”
    “Oh. I see.”
    “What is the connection between the girl and the campaign?”
    On a seat at the rear of the bus, Michael J. Hanrahan appeared to be asleep. His head lolled back on a cushion. His jaw was slack. While Fletch watched, Hanrahan lifted a whiskey pint to his lips and poured down two swallows. He did so without opening his eyes or changing the position of his head.
    “What girl?” Fletch asked.
    “Next you’re going to ask me, ‘What campaign?’ Are you stupid as well as crazy?”
    “I’m trying to follow you, Miss Baker, Apples and bananas—”
    “Add up to fruit.”
    “—make mush.”
    “Someone said she had been traveling with someone on the campaign. Now, who was it?”
    “News to me.”
    Lansing Sayer, standing in the aisle, touched Fletch on the waist.
    Fletch stood straight and turned around. “Are you rescuing me?”
    Sayer too turned his back to Fenella Baker. “Fenella,” he said, working his mustache histrionically, “is the original eighty-pound bully.”
    “Great stuff you’re writing, Mr. Sayer,” Fletch said.
    “Want to warn you, ol’ boy. Your man is going to be attacked on the so-called welfare shambles in his state. Incidents of people committing welfare fraud.”
    “When?”
    “As soon as he gets back up over thirty percent in the national polls.”
    “Thank you.”
    In his seat forward in the bus, Bill Dieckmann was doubled over in pain. Eyes squeezed closed, he held his head in both hands. His white skin glistened with sweat.
    Going